


crush

by blandersons



Category: Glee
Genre: Frottage, M/M, train!fic, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blandersons/pseuds/blandersons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Blaine Anderson is 18 years old with two semesters worth of college credits and a few thousand dollars saved up. He heads to the nearest station and takes the first train to New York with no intention of looking back. But then he meets the mysterious Kurt Hummel, a quiet boy who doesn’t let anyone touch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crush

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone, I'm making a leap from tumblr to AO3 for fic - find me over at blandersons.tumblr.com :)

Blaine is jostled by the movement of train over track, the muscles in his thighs shaking with the force of it. He places his hands on his knees, palms up, and watches the lines stretching across them blur in the motion. This isn’t how eighteen years old is supposed to feel, as if his shoulders are waiting to crack and splinter, tear along the seams of him.

Ohio always felt too small for all that he knew was inside him, curled up around his ribs, just waiting to be let loose. Accelerated classes at the Lima Community College during his senior year at Dalton Academy and years worth of saved up allowances from financially-uninhibited parents have led him here, seated on a train going fast enough for the trees to turn into slick oil paintings as they pass, racing away from all he has ever known. Most people his age who have come from where he’s leaving, Blaine supposes, would be afraid of New York city. They would see the lights and hear the cars, the clicking of boots along the sidewalk and mindless chatter filling the air and want to pack up as soon as possible and head right back to the comfort of home.

Blaine, though, has never felt at home, lost as he is in his own skin. He imagines the lights of Times Square leading him in like a moth to a flame and takes a deep breath, turning his hands to smooth clammy palms along his jeans.

***

Two hours out of Columbus, Blaine moves from his suite to try and eat. His stomach feels stretched out and too tight all at once, turning at the idea of food. It feels like something an adult should do, though, eating because he needs to and moving out of his solitary car to try and face the world. Or in his case, the one other person sitting in the dining car, picking at a salad and staring out the window. It’s a boy who looks amazingly well put-together, immaculate from the high swoop of his hair to the sharp hinge of jaw that Blaine can just make out in the horrible lighting. He can’t be much younger than Blaine himself, soft around the edges in his sweater with too-long sleeves. Blaine stares at him, wondering and curious and wanting to reach out and press a hand against the boy’s shoulder, try and turn up the edges of him with kind words. If there’s one thing in life that Blaine understands it’s how it feels to be paper-thin, stretched out across waves of others’ disappointment or expectations, billowing in the breeze as a sail on the sea.

This boy, Blaine knows, can tell from the slump of his shoulders, is running from something in the same way that Blaine is running towards this new thing, new place, New York, New York. Blaine picks a seat a few booths back from the boy and waves for a waitress, ordering a glass of water and a small salad. He keeps his eyes on the boy ahead of him and watches how his head tilts just so when Blaine laughs a little hysterically and denies the waitress as she asks if he wants a beer.

Maybe they’re going to the same place; Blaine wonders and waits for his food, tapping restless fingers against the cool table.

He wants to rest a hand on the boy’s shoulder but paper can cut as well as anything, and Blaine isn’t looking to get sliced open anymore.

***

The salad is disgusting. It seems to be constructed of wilted lettuce and too-soft spinach, stale croutons surrounding the edge of its bowl in a meager attempt at garnishment, and Blaine can understand the other boy’s lack of desire in eating it. Blaine’s fork is dull with scratches and detergent residue, and he’s twirling it between his fingers when it slips from his grip and clatters down to the table, startling the boy ahead of him into turning around.

“Clumsy?” he calls standing gracefully to settle himself into the booth behind Blaine’s. The boy rests his chin over thin, crossed arms, and looks at him, one sharp eyebrow arched delicately above a cloudy sky-blue eye. His eyelashes are dark and inviting, fanned out against the pale expanse of his cheeks. Turned to face him like this, his edges don’t seem nearly as sharp; he doesn’t look dangerous at all and Blaine is doing it again, giving up too soon on guarding himself because the hopeful side of him is fighting its way out once more, and maybe this will be the one time that opening himself up will be worth it. Blaine feels tilted, restless and uneven and he isn’t supposed to be like this, isn’t made for meeting curious boys who look at him as if waiting for the punchline to a joke he isn’t being let in on. But the boy also looks expectant and Blaine can’t just leave him waiting.

“Very. I’m sorry, uh, for the noise,” Blaine stutters. The words tangle around his teeth and he knows how ridiculous he sounds by the way the boy lets his head fall slightly to the left and continues to stare.

“I’m Blaine,” he says, because he has nothing else to offer anyone but his name. There’s an iPod full of karaoke tracks stuffed in with the rest of his luggage and Blaine is pretty sure he could put together a quick cover of the latest top 40 hit if he wanted something worthwhile in exchange, but that would be jumping ahead of himself once more and that’s how he ended up here in the first place: putting himself on the line and expecting anything positive in return year after year. He figures it’s best not to get his hopes up again, but there’s something warm bound around his ribs, a hope that he’s never been able to extinguish.

The boy’s gaze seems to soften just slightly, but it’s gone between one blink and the next and he says, “It’s okay, you know. About the noise. I keep forgetting there are other people on this thing.”

Blaine doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps his mouth shut and stares at the boy with what he hopes will come across as an inviting expression. It must work because the guy keeps talking.

“You know whenever I used to see trains on TV or whatever the first thing I thought about was the conductor, and how lonely he must be all by himself in the front of the train.” He pauses for a moment and turns to look out the window once more. Blaine follows the tendons of the boy’s pale throat as he begins to speak again. “But now that I’m actually on a train it’s so easy to imagine that there is no conductor and I’m chugging this thing along by sheer force of will.”

“I am the captain of my fate, and all that,” Blaine says, shrugging slightly.

The boy’s head whips back around to stare at him and the gaze feels heavy enough that Blaine leans back a little from the force of it, blinking quickly.

“You’d think it would be easier to captain your own soul.” He hums the words as if testing out a melody, soft and wavering with uncertainty.

“Well,” Blaine starts to answer, taking in the stern lift of the boy’s eyes and wondering wildly if this is some sort of test, “like most things poets tell us, it’s easier said than done.”

A smile blooms on boy’s face, lighting up his murky eyes like the sun coming out and Blaine thinks that there is nothing in the whole world that’s quite as beautiful as the honesty of a smile like that.

“I’m Kurt,” the boy says, tilting his chin up as if preparing himself for the upward swing of Blaine’s rejection. Blaine has spent his entire life with his head high, stubbornly searching for the best in people against his own better judgment. He can see the strain of Kurt’s muscles as he waits for Blaine to send something sharp his way and Blaine knows, then, that he has nothing on this boy when it comes to being guarded. But Blaine also knows better than most, how it feels to be stripped down and cut open and leaving yourself at the full mercy of a perfect stranger and that urge to pull Kurt close is what pushes him to lean forward and offer his hand.

“Kurt. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Kurt stares at Blaine’s hand, searching it for insincerity, waiting for the joke. After a moment he physically deflates as his walls retreat by the slightest margin, drooping down but letting a smile steal back along his features and places one soft, cool hand in Blaine’s.

***

“I’m not a runaway, you know.”

The sun has gone down and Blaine hears Kurt’s quiet statement as an afterthought; his focus has been centered on the trees passing by the window. Blaine rests his cheek against the cold glass and looks at Kurt, unimpressed.

“Good. The last thing I need is a frantic mother chasing me down for helping her son leave the nest.”  
Something in Kurt’s defiant expression shifts and there’s a coolness in his eyes that has nothing to do with the overly air-conditioned train car.

“I don’t have one. A mother,” Kurt says, as if he’s telling Blaine that the sky is blue or water is wet; as if it’s a simple fact of life that he has no say in, no discernible emotion towards, one way or the other. The monotone of his voice makes Blaine uncomfortable; he’s so used to silence or yells or songs as a means to get a point across, and a complete lack of emotion isn’t a creature that Blaine has any experience with.

“Oh,” is the only answer he can give. Kurt has a solitary eyebrow raised once more, cutting through the pale skin of his face like a carefully planned brushstroke and Blaine knows that sympathy isn’t what Kurt wants from him.

“High school is supposed to be the best years of your life, right?” Kurt starts, leaning forward against the back of his seat to rest his elbows atop of it and fix his gaze on Blaine, “And so you show up on the first day of your freshman year and expect to feel different. To feel like whatever hell you went through up until this point was worth it. I mean, you really believe that things can’t possibly get any worse and there has to be nowhere left to go but up.”

Blaine isn’t sure that he’s supposed to respond to that, as it seems that giving Kurt the floor to speak is like puncturing a tire, a steady stream of air and noise that only gets faster as it runs out. Besides that, Blaine doesn’t want to tell Kurt that high school actually is like that for most people. He doesn’t want to suggest that it might just be some kind of fate, two of the unlucky ones ending up together on the same train.

“But then I go to class after class for years and I turn into this person that I don’t even recognize when I look in the mirror. I see the same friends make the same mistakes and listen to them complain about every boy and girl in the school, and let them lean on my shoulder and cry even though their chins are pressing right into a fresh bruise from being tossed into a dumpster for wanting everything they take for granted.”

Kurt pauses and leans forward into Blaine’s space, eyes wide and frantic in their sincerity.

“So I left,” he says, letting the phrase hang between them for a long moment before sagging back down and laughing as if he can’t quite believe it himself, “I left my dad a note and emptied my bank account and here I am, telling things to you that my closest friends don’t know about.”

“If they knew, they wouldn’t blame you, Kurt,” Blaine says gently, as if trying to coax a shy animal to eat out of his palm. Which he is, in some ways, his empathy held out like an offering.

“I’m so selfish, Blaine.” Kurt’s voice cracks the name in half, and suddenly Blaine is standing on legs tired from being immobile for so long and sliding into Kurt’s booth, pressing almost close enough to touch.

“You are, but not for the reasons you’re probably beating yourself up for right now.” Kurt sniffs, a loud wet sound, and Blaine just keeps talking, “It’s selfish to not tell your friends and to deny them the opportunity to help you. But Kurt, self preservation is a skill that takes a whole life to learn and I know it’s not something you can just turn off.”

Blaine holds out a hand and Kurt ignores it, folding himself almost in half to curl around his body instead.

Their arms are touching, Kurt’s warm face pressed right against Blaine’s chest. A waitress walks back into the car to gather dishes and Blaine is expecting Kurt to push himself up and away, to let the distance settle back between them.

“I don’t let anyone touch me,” Kurt whispers, holding on tight to the front of Blaine’s shirt, “I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to hold onto someone.”

Blaine knows he isn’t just talking about the way their bodies are touching and it’s too much, the trust Kurt is giving him. Blaine takes good things and he breaks them. He’s broken his own knuckles fighting away demons, his father’s trust and his mother’s heart. Kurt is so solid and warm against his chest, but there is something breakable under his skin that Blaine is drawn to.

“Do you have your own car?” Blaine asks.

Kurt shakes his head and the motion sends his soft hair skirting against the underside of Blaine’s chin, the ghost of a touch.

“Can you, uh, would you like to stay with me? I have a suite.” Blaine holds his breath, waits.

Slowly, smooth as a cat stretching after a long nap, Kurt sits and looks at Blaine, searching.

“Yes.”

***

 

Things are different once Blaine has Kurt tucked by his side, sitting together in his suite. 

Kurt’s hand is resting on Blaine’s knee, warm and unassuming in the dim moonlight. Blaine hasn’t even bothered to turn on the lamps in his suite yet, which is essentially a mini hotel room that leads off of the normal train car: sliding doors and uncomfortable seats that face each other just like any normal train, but with an extra sliding door in place of a window. They made a stop on the way to grab Kurt’s luggage from the car he shared with an older woma, an unspoken agreement that he would be spending the final ten hours of the trip with Blaine.

Blaine looks at Kurt, sitting close enough together on the bed for their thighs to be pressed up close and tilts his head up. Leaning forward, bracing one hand on the bed by Kurt’s hip, Blaine is all but begging Kurt to kiss him. The thought of it makes him want to retreat back into his own skin, press Kurt’s luggage back into his own hands and send him back down the corridor to his own car. Blaine pours himself into molds others have set out for him, knowing full well that he is only clay wishing for a good potter’s hands to shape him into something beautiful; an elegant vase, a swirl of vines with intricate leaves, their veins painstakingly etched out, one by one.

“The moon is watching us,” Kurt whispers, turning his own face up to catch the light. Blaine had opened the shutters to watch the trees as nerves tried to get the best of him that morning, and now he marvels at the moonlight splattered against his bed and walls. He holds out his arms and watches the light paint constellations across his skin, mottled and indistinct as it passes through the trees outside to fall upon his hands.

“A raven’s-eye moon,” Blaine says, guessing at its shape from the short glimpses of it through gaps in the woods.

Kurt looks at him, then. His face shows nothing, bathed in moonlight and glowing bright as a star in the darkness.

He brushes a soft hand down Blaine’s cheek, speaks softly to him as if whispering a lullaby. “It’s a traitor’s moon.”

***

Later, they undress each other.

They’re laying on the bed now, touching just enough to remove each other’s pants and shirts, kicking off their own shoes and socks. Their eyes meet in the low light and Blaine is suddenly restless, itching to run away. There’s a burn in him, an ache under his skin as he settles himself over Kurt’s warm body. Kurt’s fingers grip around Blaine’s forearms and then slide up to wrap around his shoulders. At each point that Kurt’s fingertips press into warm skin, Blaine swears he can feel something trying to push out of it, a feather bursting out into the night. Their chests almost touching, Blaine feels Kurt’s hands on him like brands, searing him in swirls and dips around the curves of his skin. 

He hopes they scar.

He hopes that in the morning he can look at himself in the mirror and see the patterns of Kurt’s touch, remember how it felt to have him warm and willing and his, if only for a night. 

“You don’t let people touch you,” Blaine says, only a breath of space keeping his lips from grazing Kurt’s clavicle. The bones are pressed up tight under Kurt’s skin, proud and firm and Blaine wants to run his fingertips over them and feel their dips and curves.

“No,” Kurt answers, lifting his arms to frame his head in a fractured halo, “But you aren’t other people.”

That makes Blaine pause, sit up from where he’d been leaning over Kurt’s body and frown at him. 

“You don’t know that,” Blaine says. The phantoms of Kurt’s touch suddenly burn in an unpleasant way and Blaine wonders if keeping his own hands away did any good at all. 

“I do, though.” Kurt sits up and wraps long arms around his knees, folding in like swan’s wings as he sits up to be eye-level with Blaine on the bed. “Other people wouldn’t have talked to me in the dining car. They would have watched me that entire time and written me off as a drifter, or a run-away, and never seen the me that’s running towards something.”

Blaine is shaking, his hands and head and heart. 

“You talked to me first,” Blaine argues, “and how do you know that I don’t think you’re just some lonely boy with his guard down?”

The words are meant to slice, but Kurt only smiles in a way that makes Blaine even more nervous, as if he sees Blaine’s attempts to deny him to be endearing rather than a last-ditch effort at self-preservation.

“I know because you still haven’t put a hand on me.” Kurt smiles in that secret way once more and Blaine knows he has been caught.

Blaine noticed Kurt in the dining car and saw danger in the very shape of him, feigning confidence in the first words he spoke. Even from those first words, Blaine told himself not to get attached. Nothing good has ever come to him by letting his guard down.

But now he has Kurt under him, warm and pliant and wanting and something about that makes Blaine’s body remember what it feels like to want something that’s purely his, a feeling that maybe he’s never really understood. For as long as he can remember, Blaine has felt like a hand-me-down in his own life, as if he was lesser-than what his parents were expecting and they were forcing themselves to be happy with what they got stuck with. Kurt is looking at him now as though he is the very best thing, the free ice-cream on the hottest day of the year, the most unexpected and welcome of surprises.

“You can,” Kurt says, his voice warm and inviting to Blaine’s ears.

“Hm?” 

“Touch me, that is. I want you to.” The words are quiet and Blaine pushes up onto the balls of his hands, wants to make sure before he crosses that line.

“Do you?” he asks, leaning down to whisper right against the shell of Kurt’s ear, “Where do you want me to touch you, Kurt?”

It’s a confidence that Blaine didn’t know he had in him, the sudden urge to make Kurt feel incredible and knowing that he can do that; it’s warm in this bed with the sounds of a rumbling train around them and Kurt’s soft skin just under Blaine’s hands. He sits up, thighs resting back on his calves and lets his hands hover just above the sides of Kurt’s ribcage, fingers splayed. Kurt takes a deep breath and his bones push up into Blaine’s waiting palms, slotted against the warm skin. 

Blaine’s fingertips fit into the spaces between Kurt’s ribs and he loses a moment following the lines of soft skin as firm bone rises around them.

“You haven’t answered my question.” Blaine looks up into Kurt’s eyes and presses the heel of his hands against the topmost bone on each side of Kurt’s ribcage and slides his hands slowly down, pressing firmly as he goes. Kurt is letting out slow, stuttered breaths, his spine still curving up to meet Blaine’s touch.

“Everywhere,” Kurt gasps, eyes falling closed, “please, I want you to touch me everywhere.”

For a moment, Blaine just pauses with his fingers spread across Kurt’s chest and takes in the sight of him: tousled hair and tightly closed eyes, fingers locked together above his own head. He is the holiest thing that Blaine has ever seen, and his body is a temple that Blaine plans to worship for as long as he is allowed.

“I will, I promise,” Blaine says, leans forward and slots his lips over Kurt’s. The spark is immediate, all-consuming, and suddenly his hands are running down to press his thumbs against the grooves of Kurt’s hipbones and then sliding up the curve of his side. Blaine’s fingers brush against the sparse, sweat-damp hair of Kurt’s armpits and then fan along his biceps, clutching against them to ground himself. He never knew that finally getting what he wants would feel like this, his complete inability to stop himself from touching as much of Kurt as he can.

Kurt’s lips are heated and firm against his own, giving as good as he gets and taking up all of Blaine’s focus. Which is fine, really, because Blaine’s hands seem to be moving of their own accord, gliding over every bit of skin that he can. He wants to learn Kurt’s body by feel and then map it out with his eyes later. He just wants them to have time.

The train hits a bump in its tracks and sends their car jostling, propels Kurt’s body up and into Blaine’s just enough that their hard lengths slide up against each other and Blaine’s breath feels like it’s pulled out of him with the way he heaves up a sob at the feel of it.

“God,” Kurt whispers, taking Blaine’s sound into his mouth and pushing back out in the form of incoherent babbling, a steaming mix of deities and Blaine’s name and then, tacked onto the very end, “I didn’t know it could be like this.”

“Hm? Like what?” Blaine says, regaining control of his hands to frame Kurt’s face, brush his knuckles against the skin wound tight over Kurt’s cheekbones.

Their cocks are resting side-by-side, pressed snug with the way Blaine has his hips titled. It feels overwhelmingly sexy, intimate in a way that Blaine wasn’t expecting it to be and he knows what Kurt means. He had always thought that having sex with a man like this, unashamed and devastating in its sincerity, would be quick and messy and scalding. Instead he finds a slow heat building within him, one that he wants to string out for as long as he can before it bursts.

“Like I’m being crushed under the weight of it,” Kurt breathes, “But I don’t want it to stop.”

Blaine nods and brushes the tips of his fingers in the hollows under Kurt’s eyes, trying to soothe the bruise-purple skin. He drops his hands, then, to settle on either side of Kurt’s ribs and pulls his hips back and then forward, a calculating movement. Kurt’s breath hitches and his arms are back up around his head, biting his lip.

“No, Kurt, don’t hide like that,” Blaine says, dragging his cock up along Kurt’s in slow, short movements, “Please let me hear you.”

Kurt pleads at him with his drawn-in eyebrows but Blaine shakes his head and stills his hips.

“No one’s around to hear you except for me,” Blaine says.

“And the moon,” Kurt replies, his smile like a secret hanging in the air.

Blaine doesn’t know what to do with the emotion that wells up inside of him, so he laughs loudly, a sudden bark of sound. Kurt is beaming beneath him and nothing about this feels like fear. It feels like something Blaine has never known existed, something quiet and wonderful between the two of them that must be blossoming around the room from how overwhelming it feels. If this is what it is to let someone in, Blaine wonders, then he has no idea how people manage it on a day-to-day basis. It’s completely devouring, it’s eating Blaine up from the inside out and no, he doesn’t want it to stop.

“Let me take care of you,” Blaine asks, hands poised on Kurt’s biceps. 

Kurt nods and chuckles a little, almost hysterical in his disbelief.

Slowly, Blaine begins to move once more. Kurt whimpers and his fingers are white where they grip onto the fabric beneath his head. Blaine lets himself admire Kurt’s body, the way it rolls with his own and thinks that this is only the beginning. The things they could do to and with each other are limitless. All they need is each other, this warm bed and the moon to illuminate their bodies as they rock together.

Time becomes irrelevant to Blaine; he has no idea how long the two of them have been pressed together, their groans and whispers melting into the air around them. When he comes, Kurt’s spine curves up into a comma and Blaine matches it with a parenthesis, his whole body draping across Kurt’s chest and speaking low words of encouragement into his ear, “Yes, Kurt, you’re so good, so gorgeous when you come for me.”

Kurt gets a good grip on Blaine’s shoulders and kisses him, messy and hot and all Blaine needs to topple over the edge.

***

After, Kurt sits on the foot of the bed while Blaine takes his turn in the bathroom to wash up. 

Blaine stumbles back into the room and sees Kurt with his legs folded over, staring out the window.

“Only eight more hours,” Kurt says. Blaine wants so badly to join Kurt on the bed and press his body back once more, but he just crosses his arms over his still-bare chest and watches Kurt speak.

“Going to New York has always been my dream, you know? It was the only thing that kept me going, most days,” Kurt shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal and Blaine wants to shake him, let him know that having nothing to rely on but a far-off dream is something that matters a hell of a lot. He doesn’t, though, just sits at the head of the bed and nods.

“So I told myself that it didn’t matter that I was going alone, and that I didn’t know anyone in the city or have anywhere to go. I told myself that it would be enough to just be gone. I can take care of myself, you know.” His words are accusatory but lack any real venom. Blaine waits a long moment to speak.

“Yeah, I know you can. And I know that I can, too.” Kurt tilts his head in the direction of Blaine’s voice. It’s an acknowledgment of the slightest degree, but Blaine will take whatever he can get. 

“I think it might be nice, though, to have some company,” Blaine pauses, gathers himself and starts again, “I have a hotel suite waiting for me, paid in full for a couple of months. Two bedrooms.”

Kurt unfolds himself and glides up and into Blaine’s lap, pressing his ear down against the steady beat of Blaine’s heart. His legs are draped over Blaine’s, sitting sideways with bare feet dangling off the end of the bed, toes skimming across the edge of the duvet.

“Nothing is ever this easy,” Kurt says.

“No one told us it would be. In fact, everyone in my life has always made sure to let me know that it’s the hardest possible thing,” Blaine says, rubbing one hand slowly along the curve of Kurt’s spine, “Then again, my view on what exactly “it” is varies from theirs in every possible way.”

Kurt nods against his chest. “I need to call my dad. He must be worried sick.”

“In the morning, when we get ho-. When we get to the hotel. Right now you should probably get some rest.” Blaine gently pushes Kurt off of his lap and then stands to pull the covers back, sliding underneath them and staring up at Kurt as he lays down, his body illuminated by the moonlight behind him.

He is something altogether different, not in any way what Blaine was expecting and his presence still manages to soothe Blaine rather than scare him.

“You know, I. I don’t do this, Kurt,” Blaine says, avoiding the other boy’s eyes. 

“Oh.” It’s a word that comes out clipped, a puff of sound that Kurt lets out as he withdraws the hand that was reaching towards Blaine’s arm.

“No, Kurt, I didn’t meant that I regret it or that I don’t want you here,” Blaine rushes to explain, covering his own eyes with his hands, “It’s just that opening myself up to anything isn’t something that’s ever worked out for me. Once burned twice shy, you know?”

Kurt is quiet for a moment before he starts to pull Blaine’s hands down. Blaine doesn’t want Kurt to see this soft part of him, but there’s a small smile on his face that only encourages the hope blooming in Blaine’s chest.

“I still don’t know your last name, or how you like your coffee,” Kurt whispers, shuffling up close to Blaine under the covers, “Or anything about you at all, really.”

“We can learn,” Blaine answers, “If you want, that is. We have all night.”

“And what happened to getting some rest?” Kurt says, curling the fingers of one hand around Blaine’s wrist.

“Nothing sounds more relaxing to me than spending a night telling you my secrets,” Blaine says, and pushes forward to catch the corner of Kurt’s lips, not giving him time to answer.

The kiss is slow and thick with intention, and Blaine shivers to the tips of his fingers with the intensity of it. Kurt is warm and responsive, his hands fluttering up to curve around Blaine’s neck.

“I’ll go first, okay?” he asks, pushing the tips of his fingers into Blaine’s dark hair.

“Okay.” Blaine pulls back and closes his eyes, opens himself up to Kurt’s words.


End file.
